


a hand to guide

by aliaaaaaa



Series: webgottrash tumblr prompts [36]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 18:37:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6621793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliaaaaaa/pseuds/aliaaaaaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>there were times when things came at him all at once; the guilt, the unworthiness, the regret that he felt so strongly that they blinded his vision and making him wander in the dark, searching for a hand to guide him back to light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a hand to guide

**Author's Note:**

> because [Elliot](http://ethereal-liebgott.tumblr.com/) wanted a LuzToye hurt/comfort story.
> 
> this is my sloppy take.

They moved in together after the war was over.

(He sent letters to Joe a lot, writing to him every chance that he got when he was not busy minding the rations, when he was not busy carrying out patrols, when he was not busy fraying at the edge.

Joe never replied, except for a single letter that said, “I’ll wait for you to come home.”

When he stepped out from the train, Joe was there waiting for him and he tried not to stare at Joe’s prosthetic leg but his eyes wandered and he felt his breath got knocked out from his lungs because Jesus, even when Joe was here, alive and well and breathing, he still felt guilty for being whole outside even though inside, he was wasting away, breaking bit by bit.)

With whatever money that the army had given them, they rented a small apartment that was mostly a mess but they slept in worse places before so they made do with the too small kitchenette, the too narrow bathroom, the too tiny bedroom.

He didn’t mind the lack of space because he was sharing it with Joe; Joe with his ready smile whenever he turned to look, Joe who always sought for his hand to rub the smooth skin of his wrist, Joe who kissed and counted his freckles when they both couldn’t sleep.

He was happy here.

But there were times when things came at him all at once; the guilt, the unworthiness, the regret that he felt so strongly that they blinded his vision and making him wander in the dark, searching for a hand to guide him back to light.

Those days were far too many in his life now.

Sometimes he lay on the bed, under the blanket, shivering; remembering the cold of the Ardennes, remembering Muck and Penkala’s voices, disappearing in the wind just like their bodies did.

He felt guilty for being alive and he felt guilty for being alive and not living his life like a true soldier, for having these weak moments; for wanting to die because he couldn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t want to live anymore because everything was moving too loud and too fast and too bright for him when all he wanted was everything to just stop so he could take a breather, so he could open his eyes and not being assaulted by the sudden change from war to peace from dying to living from choking to breathing.

(During these moments, Joe would sit beside him, massaging his stiff leg because he had been walking a lot and because wearing the prosthetic leg for too long left a long red mark on his tender flesh. Joe would tell him about his day, about how he walked to the grocer to pick up the milk and coffee and cereal and detergent. How their neighbors were arguing over the potted flowers. How he saw a puppy that reminded him of George.

Joe’s voice was always calm, washing over his tired body, his exhausted mind and his worn out heart. His body a warm weight beside his hip, dipping the bed slightly when he sat down. His free hand smoothing his back in comforting manner, murmuring ‘I’m here, George. Don’t push me away.’

And he would shift to press his body closer to Joe, pressing his face on Joe’s thigh, whispering apologies for being difficult, whispering his regrets.

(‘I’m sorry for being like this. I’m sorry that I am so broken and damaged that I can’t function properly anymore. I’m sorry for not being the George Luz that you once knew because, Joe, fuck, Joe–.’)

And Joe would always, always hold him, running his fingers in his hair, patting them gently; gliding his warm palm on his back, circling comfortably.

(‘You’re always my George. You will always be my George no matter how broken you are. I adore you when you are smiling and I love you when you are crying and I will always cherish you even when you are like this, even when you don’t believe in yourself, even when you can’t get out from bed, even when you don’t feel like smiling and joking. I love you wholly.’)

Joe’s words helped to make him strong.

But the demon residing inside him put up a good fight too. It would creep on him in the middle of the night, disturbing his sleep, plaguing his dream with the image of him jumping out from an airplane with a chute that won’t open, with a chute that was actually a wedding dress; the dream always ended with his brain splattered on the ground, dead.

Most of the time, he would dream of Joe dead on the snow ground, blood flowing freely, soaking the snow, turning everything red, and he would scream and scream and scream for medic that would not come while the blood kept flowing and flowing until he was drowning in the sea of red and he would wake up gasping, a hoarse scream tore out from his throat, wailing Joe’s name; eyes wet with tears flowing freely, his chest heavy from the lack of air.

And Joe would wrapped his arms around him in tight embrace, rocking him back and forth. In the midst of his hoarse cry, he would faintly hear Joe’s gruff voice murmuring his name.

And he would stop trashing, croaking out Joe’s name, trying to see through his blurry vision, touching Joe’s face, soft and coarse at the same time; gasping ‘Joe, Joe, Joe’ as he glided his fingers everywhere and feeling the warmness seeping into him.

(‘George, George, _Georgie_. I’m here. I’m here, alive. We are here and not in Ardennes. We are safe, we are _safe_.’)

In those moments between dream and reality, he was glad that Joe was there with him, being the hand that guide him back to light after walking in the dark for so long with his eyes closed tightly, too afraid to open them because he feared that everything would be gone.

He knew living with him was not easy; he knew that Joe had his own things to worry about, but he was thankful, so very thankful for Joe Toye.

(‘How could I leave you, George? You’re the only person who keeps me sane enough to function properly every single day,’ Joe said when he told him about his little worries, trying to regulate his breathing because he was having a panic attack when he thought about Joe leaving him.

‘I’m just a burden for you,’ he gasped out, rolling on his side to look at the dirty wall, trying not to cry again.

‘Fuck that, if we are talking about burden then I am the burden ‘cos I have no leg and I always slow you down and I can't kick and chase your demon away and I–.’

He pressed his lips against Joe’s lips hard to stop him from talking because all of those were not true.

‘Don’t. You’re not. I swear you’re not a burden, Joe,’ he gasped, gripping Joe’s shirt collar tightly, resting his forehead on Joe’s.

‘Then you’re not a burden too, baby. Fuck, George. I fucking love you. I’m here for you through thick and thin and you should know by now that I am one tough son of a bitch and I won’t quit on you, kid.’

Joe cupped his face gently, brushing their lips together, and he felt his chest caught and released at the same time.

‘I won’t quit on you, ever. We will get through this. We will heal together. You have me always, George.’)

Some days were good; where he could roll out of the bed and hopped in the shower and started his day optimistically; venturing outside to enjoy the sun and the flowers and the people; feeling thankful that he’s alive.

Some days were terrible; where he would be too depressed and alone with vicious thoughts inside his head; where he would cry over spilled milk for hours, where he would feel like he’s better of dead.

But Joe was always there for him, through good days and terrible days; a quiet yet strong presence beside him, encouraging him; always loving him, loving him, loving him despite his flaws and imperfections.

And he knew he still had a long way to go for him to heal but together with Joe, there was nothing to be terrified of.

**Author's Note:**

> first posted on [webgottrash](http://webgottrash.tumblr.com/post/143206922107/ok-but-for-a-fic-idea-luzs-slow-decent-into)


End file.
